


a dancer dies twice (a revolutionary only once)

by sassy_ninja



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Everyone Is Gay, First Kiss, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Revolutionaries In Love, Romantic Friendship, with a capital R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_ninja/pseuds/sassy_ninja
Summary: The spring of 1832 is long and unexpectedly cold. Enjolras ends up spending a lot of time musing the nature of warmth and Courfeyrac of course is the trigger to this. They run from the gendarmerie, they walk through Paris, they fight in the revolution. Throughout there are only two things, the light to guide them and the warmth to comfort them. The light and the warmth, Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They are as opposite as they are the same, together always.orEnjolras finds himself falling in love
Relationships: Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12





	a dancer dies twice (a revolutionary only once)

**Author's Note:**

> sooo..... my city is in lockdown and my uni has shut down so what have I been doing? thats right getting back into fandoms I was in when I was 13! this is the first time I've tried to write for such a sustained time in a specific style so it was a fun challenge for me! idk if it works out but oh well I enjoyed it so! I also went on so many research rabbit holes that are barely even mentioned but I can now give a small lecture on 19th c men's clothing, miasma theory OR leeching so.... haha. also don't @ me abt the title its inspired by black swan by bts but idek if it makes sense..... oh well..... also idk if u noticed before but I write all my summaries w the same format as  
> 'some vague poetic bullshit  
> or  
> blunt one sentence summary'  
> and its bc I suck at writing summaries and also I hate doing it. I think they work well? idk

They run together, just two figures in the dark street. The only thing accompanying them is the pounding of their feet on the cobblestones, the panting of their breath and the heavy bag of cartridges that they had manage to procure earlier in the night.

Enjolras runs just a step behind Courfeyrac, their footsteps just out of sync and somewhere in the streets behind them a pack of hounds waiting eagerly to pick up their scent. It won’t take long before they’re found, especially not when Enjolras’ lungs ache oh so painfully. He curses all the time spent in backrooms of cafes and libraries and not in the salle, his body appears to have already given up the chase.

“In here,” Courfeyrac hisses, dragging them into a dark alleyway barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. It’s dark, the glow of the streetlamps only reaches a few metres in and if they stay silent and still there’s hope yet that they won’t be found.

“My hair,” Enjolras whispers, and he gets half of a laugh in return. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but alas there isn’t the time. His true meaning is instantly clear as even in the almost darkness Enjolras’ golden hair still manages to catch the light like a beacon in the night.

There’s no time to think, no time to do anything else when they can hear the pounding of feet and the shouting of men coming up the street. Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras’ head down onto his chest and pushes them against the wall, praying that his dark coat will hide them in the shadows. Enjolras stumbles just a tad, his hands gripping Courfeyrac’s waist to keep himself from falling.

It’s almost like a parody of a lovers’ embrace, perhaps a waltz, Enjolras with his face pressed against Courfeyrac’s chest and his arms around his waist. All he can hear is the pounding of Courfeyrac’s heart like a bird trying desperately to escape its cage. He looks up at his face the best he can, it’s the only way he can gauge the situation at all. Right now, he is helpless, completely reliant on Courfeyrac’s protection. He trusts him so utterly and completely in that moment it almost feels like he’s losing himself.

“Stay still,” Courfeyrac murmurs, so quiet the sound barely even leaves his lips and his eyes trained unmoving on the main street, “they’re coming.”

Neither of them moves, barely even breathing, they might as well have been the statues in the Louvre that Feuilly would sketch on weekends. Courfeyrac holds his breath but his heart beats even faster against Enjolras’ cheek.

When he’s still he almost does look like the marble statues that people so often like to compare Enjolras too, but the constant beating of his heart is a reminder that no matter what Courfeyrac is so irrepressibly human. The thought is enough to make Enjolras smile just a fraction.

“I think they’ve gone,” Courfeyrac whispers again and moves cautiously back towards the light. Enjolras misses the warmth against his body, rather isn’t that the nature of warmth? He had not thought himself cold before but creeping behind Courfeyrac like this he cannot help but shiver.

“Your rooms are closer,” he says when Courferyrac has peeked his head out onto the street and confirmed that the gendarmerie has passed, “with any luck we’ll make it back without any trouble.”

“Ah Lady Luck, give us a kiss tonight, won’t you?” he grins back at Enjolras and he can feel the warmth flood back into his chest.

Together they run again, this time quieter, pausing at every street corner to peer around for their pursuers and it takes them ten long minutes to make their way back to Courfeyrac’s lodgings. They stumble inside and Courfeyrac collapses against the door with a breathless laugh. It’s a little ridiculous, but his laughter has always been infectious – Enjolras cannot stifle the snort that comes out of his mouth if he tried to.

He leans against the wall and tips his head back, hand over his mouth as he tries to bring himself under control, but he simply cannot when Courfeyrac is now hunched over, laughing into his knees and wiping the tears away from his eyes. If you had asked either of them why they were laughing they would not even be able to tell you and yet they did not stop.

“Well I do believe that was a success,” Courfeyrac manages to say after a long while and Enjolras tilts his head to look at him, now sprawled over the ground, hat pressed over his face. He lifts it up so that Enjolras can see his twinkling eyes and winks, smile wide, “it’s rather late, you’ll stay the night.”

He phrases it more like a statement than a question and Enjolras merely nods his agreement. There is no point in trying to argue, not when Courfeyrac has _that_ look in his eye or now that the tiredness is fast catching up to him. He eases himself to his feet, wincing when he feels the dampness of his shirt against his skin, and goes to the place where he knows Courfeyrac hides their supplies.

By the time everything has been concealed once more Courfeyrac has already grumbled himself back to his feet, complaining that even his boxing sessions with Bahorel are not as arduous as being a revolutionary. He throws a nightshirt at Enjolras and begins to shed his own clothes as well.

Enjolras has never quite understood Courfeyrac’s obsession with his appearance, especially not now when the rest of his room is in a suitably Romantic disarray, he still finds the energy to neatly fold and put away all of his clothes down to even his cravat. He even fusses over Enjolras when he simply leaves his clothes in a pile on the chair.

“You will simply be completely unseemly tomorrow,” he scolds, folding everything neatly onto the chair, “you will already have to borrow one of my shirts since yours will be wrinkled to all hell and God knows I won’t be getting it back – no actually I don’t need it back, not when I know your wardrobe consists of probably only six or seven shirts. Don’t you even dare tell me how many you have.”

Enjolras just smiles, content to let him fuss mostly to himself. Truly, no matter how much effort Courfeyrac liked to put into his appearance, at least to Enjolras it is when he is like this that he is most beautiful, with his curls loose and falling over his face, shirt rolled up to his elbows and open at his collarbones to reveal just a touch of hair on his chest. To Enjolras this is Courfeyrac without any barriers or limits, au naturel, he supposes.

“What are you thinking about now?” Courfeyrac asks when he is finally content with the status of Enjolras’ clothes, snuffing out the candles before he slips into bed next to him.

“Just that you spend so much time making yourself into – what do you and Jehan call it again? A state of Romantic chaos? When you are perfectly alright just as you are,” he says, shifting towards the wall so that Courfeyrac has room to sprawl as he always does.

“Ah but where is the fun in being perfectly alright?” he replies and even though Enjolras cannot see in the darkness he can tell that Courfeyrac has his teasing smile on.

“It is just that when you are like this you are so much more,” it takes him a moment to think of the right word, but it’s the one he has been musing earlier, “you are warmer. I prefer it – your warmth – over anything else. Without you, in the revolution there would simply be light without warmth and what use would that be? All who dare to walk along the road of progress would find themselves frozen before they could reach the future they are striving for. You are the fire during lonely nights at the barricade, always warm, no matter how you try it is just irrepressible. Within your smile, your laugh, even just a look of your eyes – it is from the very core of your being. You provide the warmth that is so often forgotten is necessary for the Republic, you are the reminder that all of our actions are for the people, always for the people.”

There is a moment of astonished silence and then all he gets in response is a small embarrassed noise. He cannot help but smile again when Courfeyrac buries his face in Enjolras’ shoulder and whines almost pitifully.

“You cannot say things like that without warning me,” he says after a little while, “my ego will get insufferably large and I will no longer be able to fit my head through doors let alone find a hat that will fit.”

“Ah, how will you cope?” he teases and laughs quietly when Courfeyrac seems to be attempting to burrow his way into Enjolras’ chest.

It is not often he laughs so freely like this, most people would describe him as rather severe, perhaps overly reserved, but if he remembers correctly almost every time he is able to laugh freely is with Courfeyrac. He supposes that is just another effect of his warmth – it is simply irrepressible, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep.

He wakes at a little later than his normal time and it takes him a moment to re-orientate himself with a heavy warmth clinging to his side. This has always happened whenever he has had to opportunity to share a bed with Courfeyrac, woken up with his limbs wrapped around him and the soft scratching of his stubble on his skin.

Courfeyrac whines and holds on harder when Enjolras tries to leave and it takes a few minutes of gentle coaxing before he finally manages to extract himself, leaving a whining heap of Courfeyrac blinking blearily up at him from the bed. He has to turn away to stop him from laughing when Courfeyrac pulls the blankets over his head so all that is left is just a scrap of messy hair.

He is already mostly dressed by the time Courfeyrac manages to crawl out of bed, draping himself over Enjolras’ shoulders like a cloak and burying his face in his shoulder. The scrape of his stubble on his neck sends shivers skittering across his skin, but his back is warm from the press of Courfeyrac’s body.

“Are you even awake?” he asks, just a touch of teasing in his voice and the groan he gets in reply indicates that the answer is most certainly no, “I am already late as I always seem to be when I stay with you.”

“Few people want to leave my rooms in such a hurry,” Courfeyrac grumbles into his skin and finally dislodges himself before Enjolras can make a truly embarrassing noise in response. Something strange has gotten into him this morning and he can’t quite shake the feeling that he isn’t sitting right in his skin. Still there are more important things to do than wonder about strange feelings.

“I am not one of your many mistresses, Courferyrac, and I simply have more productive things to do than to lie in bed all day,” he reminds him and all he gets is a mocking scoff in return.

“I would never take someone to bed who had such terrible sense of style,” he sniffs, “certainly not someone who believes it is acceptable to leave my apartment with their cravat tied like _that_ even if they have ‘more productive things to do’. Would it wound Patria so to have you looking presentable? At least let me do your hair – I’ve already heated my hair iron it won’t even take twenty minutes.”

Exasperated he still lets Courfeyrac lead him to the fireplace and oh so carefully curl his hair into place, humming a small ditty that’s been popular around the workers’ cafes.

“There that wasn’t so hard now was it? You almost look decent now,” he smiles brightly after he makes a few small adjustments with his fingers and stands back to admire his masterpiece, “all the ladies will swoon as you walk along the street.”

Enjolras just sighs as he puts on his hat and overcoat, “I will see you tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, I will try my best not to be late this time,” Courfeyrac promises sincerely with a hand pressed to his heart and Enjolras smiles one last time before he leaves.

There’s a strange pang in his chest as he goes, almost like there’s a chill threading between his ribs and he has the strangest thought that if Courfeyrac was here his warmth would drive it away. He shakes his head, what a strange morning he’s having today.

* * *

It turns out that it was Enjolras that was late for the meeting after all, or not actually late per say, but later than his usual time, nonetheless. When he enters the back room of the Musain it is still only half full, but Courfeyrac is already there, not late as he had promised. He throws Enjolras a cheeky smile from across the room that fills his chest with warmth once more.

“My meeting with the workers ran over,” he explains to Combeferre when he is sent a questioning look, “the results were disappointingly inconclusive, however I feel as if their sympathies will swing towards us if we continue to meet with them.”

“Hmm,” Combeferre says as he passes Enjolras back some papers, the potential essays for pamphlets that he had asked him to look over last week. Their conversations often involve few words, partially gesture and partially just looks, there is always an understanding that seems to pass between them more easily than with anyone else. It makes following their conversations rather difficult, Courfeyrac would always complain.

He settles down to look over what he can before the meeting starts. Trying to decipher Combeferre’s chicken scratch writing is just barely harder than trying to read his own and he needs as much time as he can get to understand what either of them are saying. Still, the Musain is not an optimal place to work, especially not when that strange elated mood from yesterday morning has returned. He can hear Courfeyrac’s voice from amongst the chatter and has the strangest urge to walk over there to speak to him even though he has nothing in particular to say.

“Pah, just a mortal – Enjolras has the golden blood of Olympians, one can only count their blessings to walk in his shadow,” Grantaire’s voice booms across the room and Enjolras cannot help the sour look that passes over his face when he hears his own name.

“Enjolras bleeds red just like you and I,” Courfeyrac cuts Grantaire off before he can get into the flow of his usual rants, sounding uncharacteristically irritated. It is enough to intrigue Enjolras and stops his pen for a moment to listen, “he may lead us up the mountain, but he is no immortal. Perhaps when he speaks and bares his soul to us it is easy to mistake that light for that of an Ancient, but there is nothing heavenly in that other than the blessing of having someone who will fight heart and soul for their motherland. The people must be led by the people, we have no use for any of the divine in interfering with governance anymore.”

“Pah,” Grantaire replies again, staggering to his feet and drunkenly leaping up onto a chair and Courfeyrac and Jehan nervously stand as well in case he falls. People fall silent around him and Enjolras gives up the pretence of working to cast a long-tired look across the room. Courfeyrac simply sighs and shakes his head in return. “You call him a mortal as if there is not something sublime in the way he looks, certainly a statue from the Louvre come to life. One may question if he is from the Heavens, but there is no dispute that there is golden blood running through his veins, a noble Apollo come down to earth to bless us poor wretched mortals.”

“Oh, come off it Grantaire,” Courfeyrac sighs, shaking his head, “Enjolras is a man same as any other. He may be the light that guides us down the road of progress, without which we would be blind, but that light is not sublime,” he pauses for a dramatic second to ensure that the crowd is listening attentively and quirks his mouth in a private smile at Enjolras before he gestures at him, big and wide like he’s in the theatre, “just the other day we were running from some hounds in the night and it was the radiance of his hair that almost got us caught. Not because of some heavenly glow – rather it simply reflected the light of the streetlamps. Do not mistake a blond for Apollo simply because his hair may shine like the sun in the night-time.”

There’s a low rumble of laughter at that and Courfeyrac grins in response, ever eager to entertain. Grantaire opens his mouth to start what could be another long rambling speech filled with too many Classical allegories to keep up with, but instead he tries to take a step forwards, forgetting that he’s on a chair and almost falls. Courfeyrac and Jehan manage to catch him just before he cracks his skull open upon on a table.

“Now let us finally get started on the matter at hand,” Courfeyrac announces once Grantaire is suitably slumped back over the table, clutching a wine bottle to his chest like a mother cradling a child. He gestures again, sweeping his arm theatrically. Enjolras simply nods his thanks and tilts his head at Combeferre to start off their discussion.

The meeting is almost entirely normal apart from the times when Enjolras cannot help but let his eyes wander back to where Courfeyrac is sitting (and at one point standing on a table, pointing furiously and shouting at the wall as if Lafayette was standing right in front of it). The more passionate he gets the more he runs his hands through his neat coiffure, letting it to fall in messy curls across his face. It manages to distract Enjolras so much that during his speech he stutters for a moment, not enough for anyone apart from Combeferre to notice.

He must not have rested enough or perhaps he is getting sick, even though his mind doesn’t feel scattered it certainly does not feel normal. He will have to ask Combeferre about it tomorrow if it persists, for today though he will take a brisk walk to try clear any miasma.

He tucks his papers neatly into his frockcoat, stopping only briefly to talk to Feuilly about a copy of The Red and Black he had managed to procure for him. He has only just stepped onto the street when he hears his name called out and Courfeyrac all but skids onto the pavement next to him.

“Surely you were not going to leave without saying a word to me, your dearest friend?” he exclaims, skipping into step with Enjolras as they make their way along the street, “I presume you’ve dined already – whatever is the rush? I was planning on asking you to look over an essay I have written on Rousseau – Combeferre mentioned that we needed another for our newest pamphlet.”

“I have just been feeling slightly unwell today, I was planning on taking a walk before I returned to my rooms,” he says and catches the quiet look of worry pass over Courfeyrac’s face that he tries very hard to hide, “no need to fret over me, Combeferre does that more than enough. I know I don’t often realise my limits, but I am actually aware that sometimes I need to rest.”

“Well I shall accompany you then,” he announces with a smile, “let me tell you about this fellow that I met at the law building this morning, what an astonishing man indeed.”

Enjolras is content to just let him talk, making small noises of agreement or shock at the appropriate times to let him know that he’s still listening. It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time, allowing Courfeyrac to simply speak frivolously, meandering his way from topic to topic as seamlessly as a fish from a tributary into a lake and back once more.

“You know what Grantaire did say before you arrived though?” he exclaims, gesturing so broadly he hits a passer-by in the chest and has to spend the next minute and a half apologising.

“What did he say?” Enjolras prompts after Courfeyrac finally manages to escape, scurrying over to where he’s standing, waiting for him.

“Well he said that you and I were polar opposites – I have never been so offended in my life apart from when that one man from our Roman Law class had the audacity to call me an Orleanist,” he says, jumping seamlessly back into the flow of his conversation, “just because you are terribly unfashionable and I am practically a dandy does not mean we are opposite in any way other than that. We are both Republicans, Jacobins, we run in almost the same circles. Some may think that you have no sense of humour, but your teasing is simply harder to find than most and I have always enjoyed a challenge anways. It is true I tend to have a few mistresses here and there whilst you remain a priest of the cause, but I have never been less dedicated because of it.”

“No, you have not,” Enjolras says, giving a reassuring touch to his shoulder that gets him a small grateful smile in return.

“It has been a long while since I last had a mistress though,” Courfeyrac muses, half pouting and a peculiar feeling curls into Enjolras’ gut, “I have been awfully busy though, alas I may be on my own for a few months longer. I have thrown myself into this revolutionary business, it’s more than enough to distract me from my poor lonely heart.”

“I’m sure you will be able to find another soon enough, as you always insist on reminding everyone you are terribly charming,” he says and the smile that lights Courfeyrac’s face is reward enough, “and if not I’m sure your poor lonely heart will cope without the embrace of a lover.”

“It is a struggle, but I will pull through in the end,” he winks wickedly and Enjolras has to look away for a moment, his chest fluttering strangely. It is bizarre, but maybe he is more tired than he had previously believed.

“Well we are at your apartment already, Enjolras.”

“Oh, so we are,” he shakes his head with a small smile, “forgive me, I was distracted.”

“Get some rest, you are overworking yourself as usual. We cannot have anything happen to our leader in our moment of need, now can we?” Courfeyrac says with more tenderness than usual. He hesitates ever so slightly, but settles a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, squeezing tightly before letting go.

The warmth he leaves lingers even hours after he is gone. The strange out of skin feeling has returned full force and Enjolras wakes in the morning almost disconcerted that he is in bed alone.

* * *

That day he does his business without any trouble, no strange feelings nor incessant distraction. He doesn’t mention it to Combeferre if only just to stop him from worrying as Enjolras knows he is prone to, but the morning after that is an entirely different story.

He wakes up soaked in sweat and when he moves his entire body aches. When he goes to stand, he barely makes it a few steps before his legs start to give out under him and he has to slowly fold himself onto the ground to stop himself from falling. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to build up the strength to stand again and it takes an embarrassingly long time.

It takes him until mid-morning to be able to scrawl out a letter to Combeferre explaining his symptoms and another while to make it down the stairs to ask the landlady to help deliver it. She takes one look at his shivering and all but carries him back up the stairs, not leaving his rooms until he has sufficient water and has assured her that his medical student friend will come soon and that she can leave the door unlocked.

“Enjolras you are sick,” is all Combeferre says when he enters, hurrying over to where he is lying, already pulling things out of his bag. He doesn’t speak again after that or if he does Enjolras does not quite hear in his haze of fever induced delirium.

At some point, even though he does not remember it he must have dozed off to sleep because when he next opens his eyes the early morning sun is already filtering through his windows. He tries to ease himself to a sitting position and almost jumps when he sees Courfeyrac slumped over his chair, head tilted back awkwardly and fast asleep.

It is only a touch amusing to see him with his shirt and trousers so wrinkled and his hair teased into a tangled mess, no doubt from running his hands through it so many times. His heart pangs a little at the thought of how worried he must have been.

He feels much better now though, still dizzy with tiredness and his nose clogged to all hell, but his fever must have broken sometime in the night. He can feel tenderness where the leeches must have been and shudders. They may be useful medical tools as Combeferre always reminds him, as vital to a doctor as bandages or a scalpel, but they are also vile and slimy little creatures. He remembers always having to pull them off his legs after swimming in streams and lakes as a child. How Combeferre and Joly handle them with such ease he will never understand.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac slurs out, groggy and confused. He almost falls out of the chair as he stands, staggering over to the bed and sitting down heavily, hands pressing themselves to his forehead immediately, “your fever has broken? Thank the Creator, we were so worried about you when Combeferre got that letter he came here right away and sent a gamin for me right away. I ran here when I heard the news and it was terrible, you were incoherent with fever you kept on babbling on about your schooldays but none of it quite made sense. I sent Combeferre home after he was done so he could rest and said that I would watch over you until morning and now your fever is gone and you will be quite alright soon enough.”

He hums quietly in response to Courfeyrac’s worried rambling, eyes already dipping closed. His hands are wonderfully cool on Enjolras’ skin, how funny for someone who is always so warm. He must have spoken out loud in his tiredness because Courfeyrac replies, quiet and kind, “ah I must have given you too much of my warmth and now I must take it back. Rest now and you will feel even better when you awake again.”

Enjolras is powerless but to obey.

The next he wakes Courfeyrac has been replaced with Combeferre once more, hunched over his desk and reading something. He looks up almost immediately as Enjolras moves, striding across the room and wordlessly helping him to sit up against the headboard, giving him as glass of water to cool his thirst.

“You are recovering quickly,” he says after taking Enjolras’ pulse and temperature once more, “I do believe it was not a serious sickness, just a winter cold that has taken its time and come late in spring instead. Your fever did worry me for a while, but it abated quickly.”

“Mnn I used to get many fevers of the sort as a child,” he grimaces, remembering the days he spent locked away in his room, practically clawing at the walls in his desperation to get out. Still it meant he had plenty of time to waste and had eagerly fallen upon the revolutionary texts his father had lying around and forgotten about, “it’s why I did not board until I was sixteen when we met, but I have not had one like this for many years.”

“You have worked yourself too hard these months,” Combeferre frowns at him, “Courfeyrac was telling me about how the two of you had to run in the night from the gendarmerie, that is likely when you built up the miasma in your body.”

“Well I will rest now, I have no choice after all,” he replies soothingly and the crease between Combeferre’s eyes only lessens ever so slightly.

And so he does rest, eating only the cold and dry foods Combeferre brings him so that his fever does not return, but by the evening he is restless once more. There is nothing he abhors in himself more than idleness, other than perhaps his occasional penchant for cruelty. Still, lying around in bed when he feels almost fine again is most irritating, especially when Combeferre will not even allow him to read something more stimulating than a newspaper and not even an interesting one at that. 

He has promised to rest, however, once he has insisted Combeferre return to his own rooms to rest for the night he cannot help but go to his writing desk to look over the final drafts for the pamphlet. It needs to be taken to the printers by the end of the week if they want to be able to distribute it by next month and there is no time to waste.

“Aha,” the doors to his room swing open and Enjolras almost topples off his chair as Courfeyrac strides inside, pointing the spare key he had been given many months ago, “Combeferre told me you made him go home when we dined tonight and I just _knew_ you would not be able to resist working if left alone.”

“You know me too well,” he replies wryly as Courfeyrac leans over his shoulder to see what he’s working on, “it is not strenuous work and I have not been here for long.”

“I know, I know but you need rest, Enjolras. We were all terribly worried about you – Jolllly was almost beside himself, I think he checked his pulse about a thousand times in an hour at the last meeting. You are still pale, go back to bed and I will look over the essays for you when you have gone to sleep,” he says more quietly, gentle hands running through Enjolras’ hair to put it into some semblance of neatness.

He sighs, there’s no use fighting it when Courfeyrac is already hauling him to his feet and pushing him back towards bed. “I have been sleeping all day,” Enjolras complains when he gets another pointed look, “I truly am well rested now, I have already lain down please do not try to compel me to sleep.”

“I will simply have to bore you to sleep with my endless stories then,” he replies, cheerful as ever. Enjolras settles himself against the headboard and Courfeyrac pulls the chair beside him and shucks off his boots so that he can rest his feet up on the bed, “I know you do not particularly care for them, but we if we speak of politics then both of us will get excited again and neither of us will sleep tonight.”

He nods, content to let him talk freely once more and Courfeyrac is presumably pleased to have a captive audience that truly cannot leave. It is soothing though, just to hear him speak and rather amusing as well. He throws his body fully into every story he tells and Enjolras thinks he could have been quite a successful actor if he wanted to. His stories, although they do not peak Enjolras’ political interests still manage to be engaging enough to whittle the evening away into night.

“It is getting rather late isn’t it?” Courfeyrac suddenly exclaims, distracted halfway through his story about helping to smuggle his younger sister out of the house to meet her lover, “damn I should be letting you rest. My tales have worked wonders though look, your eyelids are already drooping. I must dash away into the night and let you rest now.”

He goes but not before fussing over Enjolras just a little bit longer, going down to fetch him more water and putting more wood in the fireplace. He strokes the curls off Enjolras’ forehead with a warm smile and presses a quick kiss there before ducking out of the door with a quiet goodbye. Enjolras finds that the room is colder without him even though the fire roars brightly in the fireplace.

* * *

He manages to make it to the next meeting, still a little pale, but mostly alright again. A crowd forms around him when he arrives, every person wanting to assure themselves that he is indeed still alive and well.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac singsongs at him after the meeting has ended, “let me walk you home?”

“I won’t collapse onto the street, Courfeyrac, I’m sure you have more meaningful things to do than to escort me back to my rooms,” he replies, but all Courfeyrac does is tell him to wait while he gets his coat and hat.

The streets are crowded today, workers cheery after getting their weekly pay and the two of them have to walk closer together than usual. Their hands brush each other on occasion and at one-point Courfeyrac has to jump back dramatically to avoid a getting splashed by water from a passing carriage, dragging Enjolras with him by the shoulders.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at class?” he says when they reach Enjolras’ apartment and he has the strangest sinking feeling in his chest. Perhaps he did overexert himself today because for some reason he wants to invite Courfeyrac upstairs even though he has nothing more to say.

“Goodbye Courfeyrac,” he says and gets another warm squeeze on his shoulder.

It’s strange how cold his chest feels without Courfeyrac there to warm him, how much he suddenly craves his presence. These feelings, they’ve been building for a while, but he had been too busy to ever notice them before, it’s quite strange, he hasn’t felt like this since he was seventeen.

Enjolras freezes with the realisation of it all, stock-still halfway up the stairs. Back then he had only been a child, a child that had spent most of his adolescent years sickly and stuck in his family home, now he is already an adult, someone who has the whole of Paris at their feet. Something should have changed; it should not have happened again.

He goes back to his room in a daze, mind hazy with thought. It has been eight long years since then, he is no longer a boy but almost a lawyer, already a man and a revolutionary – there is no time for the guilty pleasures of his teenage years anymore. Not now, not ever and especially not with Courfeyrac.

His chest churns with guilt at the thought. Courfeyrac – kind, warm Courfeyrac who would give Enjolras the shirt off his back if he so asked for it, who looks up to him as his leader, who has said many times that he would die for him as he would die for the Republic. No – he cannot do that to a man he considers his dearest friend apart from Combeferre. To debase him like this even in his mind, it fills him with abhorrence.

It is just that – it is so easy to imagine Courfeyrac’s touch, he gives it so freely even to Enjolras whose disposition does not usually invite someone to cling to his shoulders or tidy his hair. Most people prefer to remain at an awed distance as if he is a statue on display and even those who know him well do not share with him the same casual touch they do with others. It is only Courfeyrac who dares to do so. ‘Of course it is’ he thinks to himself.

Still, maybe if he closes his eyes he can imagine Courfeyrac with his hair tousled and his shirt rolled up to his sleeves, leaning into Enjolras’ space with that teasing smile on his face. Would he cup his cheek or the back of his neck? He sighs, tilting his head to the side as if he expects Courfeyrac’s hand to be there. Would his lips be soft? He knows from the gossip that he is a passionate and ardent lover, just the thought of it sends a hot flush across his cheeks.

He shakes his head again, clenching his fists tight. Already he’s allowing his baser nature to dominate his mind, it feels as though he’s returned himself to his childhood bedroom. Shame floods through his chest again and he curls up on the ground, hiding his face in his knees.

His mind races and conjures up even more images and sounds and thoughts until it settles on the worst possible one. Courfeyrac with his lip curled with disgust and his hands up as if even the thought of touching Enjolras is abhorrent to him. His mouth opens and speaks words that aren’t his, ones from eight long years ago, but they hurt worse when they appear to come from Courfeyrac’s mouth.

“This is unnatural, Enjolras, this is against all natural laws. You are an abhorrence upon the Earth, God in all His Grace does not make mistakes, but this is – this is the closest time I have ever come to questioning His judgement. Never speak to me, never so much as look at me again.”

He shudders because Enjolras has always felt his passions from the depths of his soul whether that is his Republicanism or his baser desires… he has always thrown his entire self into them. His ideals though – Patria, she cannot be taken away from him. He can fight for her until his mouth is bloody and his lungs take their last gulping breath, but this – but _love_ – has always fallen far beyond his control. Especially when that love is as unnatural as his.

Trying to pursue it would be too great of a risk, if it was found out that he was like this any work that he’d done for the Republic would be undone, he would risk undoing all of Courfeyrac’s work, all of the work of Les Amis. He could not threaten that, not for something as frivolous as this.

It would be hard and painful, but Enjolras would have to dig up this passion from the roots, he could not allow any of it to remain. That would mean avoiding Courfeyrac and even though his entire heart aches at the thought he must persist. He takes a deep fortifying breath and allows himself to think for one more moment about the warmth that Courfeyrac always seemed to leave in his wake. He has already up his mind, there are larger things at play than his poor lonely heart.

* * *

The next morning at their lecture he sits deep inside the theatre rather than his customary seat beside the door where he could leave a space for Courfeyrac to slide gratefully into when he appears late. His heart only aches a little when he sees Courfeyrac slip into the room and look around a little confused when he sees where Enjolras is sitting. He keeps on casting confused glances across the room which Enjolras tries his best to ignore. It hurts even more though to slip through the crowd afterwards and pretend he cannot hear Courfeyrac calling his name.

The rest of the week continues mostly like that, leaving meetings at the Musain quickly and ensuring he is always sitting between several people during their lectures. Combeferre notices with a deep frown and tries to question him, but all he says in return is to tell Courfeyrac it is not his fault, but something entirely on Enjolras.

He hopes that without a week of contact his passion would have lessened somewhat but the pain never abates, if anything it grows unbearably strong until he ends up leaning against the walls of his room with his hand clutched to his chest. He doesn’t want to think about the hurt he can see on Courfeyrac’s face, he doesn’t want to think about him at all. This is for both of their sakes, he tries to convince himself though even his own logic feels flat and empty inside his mind.

Suddenly there is a pounding at his door, and he has half the mind to just ignore it, but it could be something important, so he cautiously pulls it open. It is Courfeyrac. He tries to close it again, perhaps not his smartest move, but just seeing his face so close sends a pang of pain through his chest like no other.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac curses, pushing against the wood of the door desperately to keep it open just a crack, “Enjolras, don’t you dare close this door – if you do I will go downstairs and flirt so shamelessly with your landlady that she will have to let me in, don’t think that I won’t.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes several large steps away from the door, Courfeyrac tumbling into his rooms with the grace of a new-born deer, his hat skittering across the ground. He looks up at Enjolras, shocked, as if he hadn’t expected the threat to work at all, but beyond that he looks bone weary in a way that Enjolras has never seen him look before.

His curls are flat, his shirt is wrinkled and his frockcoat has a stain on the side of a questionable nature that may very well be blood or wine. He looks a far cry from the dandy he is always insisting that he isn’t and closer to the brooding poet that Jehan prefers. It is a painful departure, one that likely Enjolras has caused over anything else.

“You have been avoiding me this week,” he says, voice filled with false levity that makes him sound so fragile, as if he might shatter against the wooden floors, “I have no idea what I have done to offend you so that you do not even want to look upon my face. Even though Combeferre told me that you had only said it was your own problem, I refuse to believe that, but even more than that I refuse to believe there is a problem that would not be lessened if shared.”

“Courfeyrac it is true,” he manages to say, “it is not your burden to shoulder but mine alone. I am sorry it hurts you so, but once I have resolved it then we can return to our previous friendship.”

“And how long will that take?” he glares and continues when Enjolras opens his mouth and then closes it again, in truth he does not know, “I thought you and I were not so different, but apparently you are able to turn your friendships on and off like a tap and I–” his voice catches on the last word, he turns his face towards the window, but Enjolras still sees the glint of unshed tears in his eyes.

When he speaks again it is much quieter, voice trembling with emotion, “I have had many friends who have grown tired of me, of my dramatic antics and passions, but I truly did not think that you would be one of them.”

Neither of them speaks for a while, Courfeyrac to calm himself down and Enjolras to stop himself from rushing across the room to hold him in his arms. It takes all of his self-control to stay still, but his voice still wavers. “I did not wish to hurt you – you are one of my dearest friends I – truly I am trying to spare you from a greater pain than this,”

“Enjolras please,” Courfeyrac says suddenly, falling to his knees at Enjolras’ feet, pressing his forehead against his stomach and clutching at his shirt, “do not make me beg, I am a proud man, but a bullet to the chest wouldn’t hurt as dearly as this. You have not just hurt my heart, you have struck me in my soul. Please.”

Enjolras is not strong enough to push him away, perhaps in body but his mind simply lacks the will to do so. Instead he runs his hands through Courfeyrac’s hair, soft and unstyled, for what he assumes will be the last time and relishes his warmth. It gives him the strength he does not know he has to speak.

“When I was younger I did not board,” he starts and Courfeyrac’s head whips up to look at him, eyes burning with equal parts hurt and curiosity. Enjolras has to look away to speak again, “I was a sickly child and it was not until I was sixteen did my health permit it, which was when I was able to meet Combeferre. My childhood – mostly I kept to myself and my books, but there was one person who kept me company. He was the nephew of a priest whose sister had passed away and he was raising, but he was – he was my only friend.”

“Yes?” Courfeyrac asks, confused perhaps, but still attentive. It takes all of Enjolras’ strength to continue.

“When I went to board, I missed him dearly – I thought of him every day and pined so frightfully after him. When I returned in the summer, I rushed to see him and told him everything and he – you see Courfeyrac I am not – I am–”

“You were in love with him,” he replies, quiet, “you are in love with me.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and feels Courfeyrac stagger to his feet, the warmth slipping out of his hands. He expects to hear the door slamming shut and feet pounding down the stairs, but instead there are warm hands on his cheek and all of a sudden, he is being kissed.

His eyes fly open with shock, but it is Courfeyrac there with his dark eyes staring back. He leans in to kiss him again, this time even more tender and Enjolras’ lips move back on instinct. The passion builds until it is overwhelming and he finds himself being pushed backwards until his hips hit the wood of his table. Even then Courfeyrac crowds forwards still, pressing their bodies together in one long hard line.

One of his hands find the solid warmth of Courfeyrac’s shoulder and the other fists itself in his hair. Their lips only leave each other to gasp in a breath before they are kissing once more and it feels like Enjolras’ body has been lit on fire, Courfeyrac’s warmth burning through every vein.

“Wait,” he manages to gasp out, twisting his head away and Courfeyrac instead turns his interest to the newly revealed column of his neck. It takes a long while after that before he is able to speak again, let alone find the strength in his arms to push Courfeyrac just a few inches away, “stop, Courfeyrac, please we cannot – this is not–”

“Natural? Good? Is this sinful?” he laughs breathlessly, leaning back in to kiss Enjolras once more, “pray tell me Enjolras, does this not feel like the most wonderful thing in the world? To kiss someone you love? To touch them, to have them touch you? I may not be the best Catholic, but I do not believe that God would make this highest form of communication a sin.”

“Still, Courfeyrac – pray just let me think for a moment,” he says and Courfeyrac takes a single begrudging step backwards, still close enough that Enjolras can feel the heat from his body. He is so breathtakingly beautiful like this with his swollen and spit-slicked lips, he feels a thrill run through him that he can invoke a response like that. He shakes his head to try and clear his thoughts. “We are going very fast.”

“On the contrary I believe we have been going very slowly,” Courfeyrac pouts in reply, “I have known you for almost seven years and yet I have only gotten a kiss from you tonight.”

“Do not tease me Courfeyrac, I am not joking,” Enjolras murmurs with a frown, “this is not simply a passing whim for me, I have never–” his voice catches in his throat as he speaks, “I thought my only love to be that of Republicanism and Patria.”

“The pure pursuit of a higher cause,” Courfeyrac says almost musingly, “but surely you understand that this is not a detraction from your dedication to the cause? One can very easily be a lover and a Republican at the same time, most of us have had lovers at one point or another, even Combeferre, and never been less dedicated because of it. Just the other day you reassured me of the same thing, but you won’t allow yourself the same slack?”

Enjolras just frowns even harder in response, he knows that he allows his lieutenants to love freely and openly – who another man loves is not his business and yet it is something he will not allow in himself. It is a strange contradiction in a mind usually so guided by its own logic. He strokes a hand through the soft hairs on the top of Courfeyrac’s neck as he thinks, there is something comforting in the way that he leans into Enjolras’ touch.

“My mind is in turmoil,” he confesses quietly, Courfeyrac’s bright eyes sharp on him, “I do not know what to think even less how to act. I have not so much as considered any sort of relationship, let alone with a man.”

“It is not so different,” Courfeyrac replies, quiet and with a small smile just on the edge of his lips. It is a vulnerable look, one that makes Enjolras’ hand tighten instinctively to keep him close, “do you remember that friend I had back in our second year of university? The one with the purest Loire accent you could imagine?”

“Yes, I remember him. He came to Les Amis meetings on occasion, he was a Jacobin,” Enjolras frowns as he remembers, “but he left Paris to join the…”

The realisation hits him and Courfeyrac shrugs in response, “join the clergy. What I am saying is that it is possible to have these – shall we call them discreet relationships – under the noses of all of our closest friends and family. It may be lonely at times, but I believe it to be worth the pain on occasion. After all, in order to have pleasure some may argue we must also have pain – one must first have the fires of the Revolution before the rebirth of the Republic.”

“You use politics in order to convince me,” Enjolras says reprovingly, frowning to try and stop his smile, but Courfeyrac catches just a glimpse of it and he grins with delight.

“And it seems very effective, shall I try to bring Rousseau into my argument as well?” he smiles, teasing once more, “although I do believe my other methods are just as convincing.”

Enjolras tries to look disapproving as Courfeyrac leans into to try and kiss him again, but he can barely manage to stop his own smile when he dips to the side and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek instead. He will admit that Courfeyrac’s ‘methods’ as he calls them are very tempting, they excite something within him that feels now almost irrepressible. It is quite irritating to have to practice self-restraint and stop himself from pressing Courfeyrac against the nearest surface and kissing him until he no longer has the breath to speak. Quite irritating indeed.

“So, what do you make of my case?” Courfeyrac asks again, “have I convinced you?”

His eyes are oh so innocent, even if his mouth is a whole different story. Enjolras feels his restraint cracking under his fingertips and he caves, if only just for the night. “I feel as if I require more convincing still,” he cannot help but tease and Courfeyrac laughs into his shoulder.

“Well I think you will find my argument most compelling,” he whispers, their faces just barely apart, Enjolras can feel his breath puff across his lips.

“Will I?” he asks and there is no more speaking for a while after that.

He is lost in a dizzying new world, just Courfeyrac’s lips against his and then his lips on his neck and his shoulders. It is not until he feels Courfeyrac’s hands start tugging at the top of his trousers that he manages to find himself enough to push him away, gently and with a consoling kiss.

Courfeyrac stands there, panting, eyes hungry like Enjolras has never seen before. He has glimpsed hints of this side of him when a pretty grisette flashes an ankle at him at a dancehall, but even then, it was only just a spark of desire and never directed at him. He feels like he is standing too close to a fire, the entirety of his body is burning with Courfeyrac’s heat.

He places a steadying hand on Courfeyrac’s chest, feeling the slowing rise and fall of his chest through the thin layer of his shirt – both their jackets, waistcoats and cravats had been shed a while ago. He’s strong and wiry, both years of fencing and a student diet combined. Whole, warm and so very alive. It is remarkably grounding to feel the rapid thump of his heartbeat, steady against Enjolras’ palm.

“Will you stay the night?” he asks, “just as we have been before.”

Courfeyrac presses a soft kiss on his cheek, all tenderness, before he replies, “anything that you want, Enjolras. I will do anything for you.”

* * *

He wakes with a warm weight on his chest, Courfeyrac’s arm thrown carelessly across him and his head nestled into his shoulder. Enjolras gently strokes a hand through his hair and he leans into it, catlike, even though his sleepy mumbling is not quite a purr.

He suddenly finds himself struck with the idea that he could possibly be content, right now in this moment he is perfectly happy. It is deeply troubling, although a rational person may not understand exactly why, but at least to Enjolras it is clear – what is the use of striving for a perfect world if he can be happy with this? The Republic for which he would sacrifice himself, body and soul, but how could he sacrifice those he loves? Could he give up this for something greater?

“It is far too early to be thinking so hard,” he jolts out of his thoughts at Courfeyrac’s grumble, squinting sleepily up at him.

He allows himself to be gently pulled back down and have soft, sleepy kisses pressed to his shoulders, neck, cheek and eventually his lips. It is – as Courfeyrac had put yesterday – a rather convincing argument, but there are things to be done today that are more important still than kisses. He laughs a little at his wild thoughts that he could ever give up his Republicanism for a few kisses, even if those kisses are from Courfeyrac and therefore particularly sweet.

He manages to slowly extract himself from Courfeyrac’s grasp, even though his hands are wandering and sticky as tar. When he is dressing, he can feel Courfeyrac’s sharp gaze on his back, watching keenly as he pulls off his nightshirt and it sends a sharp spike of embarrassment and something else up his spine.

“Do you have to watch me so?” he asks flatly when he receives a small hiss after he puts on his shirt as if he’s an actor at the theatre.

Courfeyrac grins in response, “it would be irresponsible to leave such a dawn unseen – I am simply compelled to observe for one does not know when they will see such beauty again.”

The frown of disapproval at his exaggerations remains, but it is tempered by even more fondness than before. Especially when Courfeyrac has finally managed to leave the bed and is currently pressing Enjolras against the table to kiss his way down the open neck of his shirt.

“I have a meeting with the workers that I cannot be late for,” Enjolras protests, albeit weakly. His hands still cling onto Courfeyrac’s shoulders and do not show any signs of letting go.

“Well then you will have to make sure that your cravat is done up properly for the sake of propriety or the ladies will faint away at the sight of your neck,” he bites down on the skin once more for emphasis and pulls away, leaving Enjolras to helplessly press forwards to chase his mouth. Instead all he gets is a quick kiss on the lips and a cravat tied around his neck with perfect precision to hide all of the evidence of last night, “are you free for dinner tonight? We can dine in my rooms and talk further of this new development.”

“Yes,” Enjolras nods, pressing a hand to the restricting tightness of his cravat, “that would be wise – yesterday and this morning still, I have acted with my baser instincts and not with logical thought.”

“I am very apt at driving logical thoughts away,” Courfeyrac tries to joke, but seeing the serious look on Enjolras’ face changes tack, softening and pulling his hand to his mouth to kiss his palm, “I take this very seriously – although I may joke, I swear to you this is no passing whimsy. My dedication to you could not be beaten by that of Patroclus to Achilles. I am yours in whatever capacity you so desire, although I hope I have made my own desires quite clear.”

“Very,” Enjolras replies, almost lost once more in his thoughts, “I will be at your rooms at seven and we will speak more in detail then.”

“Alright then,” Courfeyrac says and Enjolras must resist the urge to press away the crease between his brows. He turns and leaves Courfeyrac in his rooms, alone.

* * *

The worst thing about the day is just how tight his cravat has been tied, it is distracting, and he has to stop himself from loosening it several times, but he knows just how unseemly he would appear with his neck bruised to all hell. He would certainly not win the respect of the workers that way.

Still, it is not with great pleasure that he realises he will have to do this for at least a week until the marks heal – he will have to make sure Courfeyrac does not bite him so the next time.

He walks quickly through the streets of Paris after the meeting is done, he should be going to the library to finish his paper, but he cannot help but dawdle for a moment to enjoy the spring air. It is uncharacteristically cold for May and remarkably refreshing.

“Enjolras, Enjolras,” he spins when he hears his name and sees Jehan skipping down the street towards him in a truly bizarre coat. It appears to be something from the early 18thcentury or possibly just the skinned carcass of a large animal he found and wrapped around himself. Either way, on Jehan’s tiny frame the way it flaps as he skids to a halt is almost comical.

“Jehan,” Enjolras dips his hat in greeting as Jehan bends over to try and catch his breath, “is there a problem?”

“No there is only wonderous news,” he grins up at him, almost vibrating with excitement, “Courfeyrac told me that you two have finally stopped quarrelling – what a joyous time! All of us were so terribly distraught to see you feuding so viciously. Before when you had fought, it was never like this and you always made a truce after at most a day. Even Bossuet’s puns were not as funny as they normally were.”

“Our argument ended up as simply a misunderstanding. It has been concluded rather–” he smiles just a touch, “pleasantly, after all. I apologise if it was upsetting, but it was necessary.”

“Oh, all that matters is that our Chief and our Centre are once again at peace,” Jehan shouts, drawing a few strange looks, but then he opens his eyes wide and jumps with shock, “oh Enjolras – I had completely forgotten why I was sent to find you. I was having lunch with Bossuet and Bahorel and one of his former mistresses works in the court of Lamarque and knows that he is a Jacobin, so she had come all the way to find us and tell us that he has taken ill. It is serious, they do not expect him to last the month.”

Enjolras raises a hand to his mouth in shock, pressing his fingers to his lips as he thinks. “Lamarque will die,” he murmurs, “this is – Jehan this may be the opportunity we have been waiting for. We have been stockpiling supplies for months, there is no better time than this. Spread the news quickly, we will have a meeting tonight in the Musain. Once we have come to a decision, we will spread the news – this may be our only chance to once more set Paris ablaze.”

“Yes Chief,” he shouts, dashing away along the street with his coat flapping like a bizarre bird and Enjolras clenches his fist tightly. There is no time for his paper now, not when there is a revolution to set into motion.

The meeting is full of fire and anger, harsh rhetoric and burning passion that leaves Enjolras’ chest heaving with emotion. Courfeyrac somehow ends up on a table again with a fistful of papers in one hand and shouting down curses against the monarchy. He looks enraged and beautiful – looking at him Enjolras feels the strangest sense of calm, at least until Courfeyrac catches his eye and with a devilish grin sets him alight once more.

The meeting ends with the skeleton of a plan, but the slow-moving cogs of revolution have finally begun to turn – a full meeting of their closest allies will convene tomorrow evening and from there the battleplans will be sent across the city to the rest of their connections. All the work that they have done over the years will continue, but now tenfold – there is a deadline they must run towards at a full sprint, an opportunity like this will not come again soon.

Feuilly reports that the workers are already talking, the whispers that Lamarque has taken ill have been spreading throughout the city. Everywhere that discontent has been seeded over the years has begun to very slowly germinate and with care it will bloom into revolution. It has all begun and this time unlike two years ago, Enjolras will not allow their gains to be stolen from their fingertips.

“Will you still join me at my rooms tonight?” Courfeyrac asks, cautious and quiet when they have finally been ejected from the backroom by an exasperated waitress who simply wants to close shop, “I have some drafts for speeches that I would like you to look over.”

“Yes, yes,” he nods, distracted briefly by the way the light from the streetlamps catches Courfeyrac’s jawline, “it is late, let us hurry.”

They walk in almost perfect silence, close enough that their hands brush just once or twice, but not so close that it could arouse suspicion. Their steps echo in unison and walking together in the darkness reminds Enjolras of that night running from the gendarmerie almost a month ago. It is funny how much has changed since then.

As soon as the door to Courfeyrac’s rooms are closed, Enjolras finds himself pushed him up against it and being thoroughly kissed him. Here the moment of calm he felt earlier returns, almost as if Courfeyrac’s lips are the only thing that could give him peace, his eyes the only thing to ignite him. It is nonsensical and yet perfectly logical. When they break apart a while later both of them are panting hungrily.

“The drafts were not just an excuse to get you alone I’ll have you know,” Courfeyrac laughs, pushing Enjolras further into the room before kissing him once more, “but I do believe it is probably better for Combeferre to look over them rather than you or else he will likely scrap them entirely.”

“Mnn,” is all Enjolras says in return, deciding that if Courfeyrac has enough breath to ramble then he has not done his duty well enough. By the time he is satisfied, Courfeyrac drags them both tumbling down onto his chaise and smiles as if in a daze.

“This is a distraction,” he says a while later when Courfeyrac is slowly sucking another bruise onto his shoulder, this time far from where his shirt could reveal.

“A pleasant one nonetheless,” Courfeyrac purrs into his skin.

He frowns, running a hand back through Courfeyrac’s hair and tugging ever so slightly. It still pulls a soft moan out of him and he smiles softly in return, “I could argue it is a distraction that could risk everything – if we are found out all of our work will be for nothing. No one will follow two sodomisers into a revolution.”

“Then we will keep this a secret,” Courfeyrac leans back, eyes serious, “I am not such a fool that I would throw away all of our hard work for this. We can be careful and even if we are only able to share a few moments together I will be satisfied – after we succeed there will be more time. All I want from you is a promise that you will not withdraw again like you did before, my heart cannot take that again.”

“I will not – I swear to you I will not,” he whispers, kissing Courfeyrac softly on the lips as if to seal the promise.

“Then shall we have one more night of pleasure before the rise of the Republic?” Courfeyrac grins, lecherous and burning bright. Enjolras smiles, it seems to him like the wisest course of action would be to lean in and kiss his agreement into Courfeyrac’s mouth.

* * *

The next weeks rush by in a blur. There is work and still more work to be done, not just their usual meetings but now they hold open air gatherings, big rallies in squares that last just enough time for Enjolras and maybe one other person to give a riotous speech before the crowd is scattered by the police. He can feel the anger thrumming through Paris like blood through veins, when he walks the streets people nod their head to him in recognition. The pot is bubbling over the fire, it will only take a little more for it to finally boil over.

There are more than a few scuffles that take place, the gendarmerie even more eager for blood than they are, each of them carrying their own battle wounds. When they are alone, Enjolras kisses the bandages wrapped around Courfeyrac’s knuckles and the smile he gets back is weary but still bright.

The warmth of summer is only barely here when Gavroche rushes into a meeting one day, eyes wide and hat askew before bellowing to the gathered crowd, “Lamarque is dead.”

They freeze in place, eyes wide and one by one they look to Enjolras – the sign they have been waiting for this entire time has finally come. He bows his head briefly in mourning, those still wearing hats remove them, but when he speaks again there is only burning determination, “this is our sign – on the day of his funeral we will put up a rallying cry. Paris will rise, we will lead the people to the glorious future we have all been dreaming of.”

They cheer, every single one of them with the fire roaring in their hearts. He catches Courfeyrac’s eyes amongst them and there is so much trust in there that his breath stops for just a moment. There is no time to hesitate anymore, they must stare into the black abyss of the unknown and walk in together with only the light of the revolution to guide them. This time they are so close he can almost feel the warmth of the future that will be, one that will bring all of the children of France into the light.

“There is no time to lose,” Combeferre shouts, “you all know your roles, do not stray. All of your work now is key.”

“For the Republic,” Courfeyrac cheers and they echo him once more before the room is once again rushing back to work.

There is only time for the two of them to speak once more before Lamarque’s funeral and even that is not so much talking as a quiet moment in each other’s arms in an empty room. Enjolras finds he gains more energy from being held like this than he has gotten from the scraps of sleep he has at night. He buries his head in the crook of Courfeyrac’s neck and all of a sudden is struck by a thought.

“Light and warmth,” he muses when he leans back to kiss him, “they are not entirely separate, you cannot have a cold fire, or one that does not glow. We have always been entangled in our own way.”

“So we have been,” Courfeyrac murmurs back, smiling against his mouth, “light and warmth – I like that. With you to lead the way and me to keep our spirits high, the revolution will blaze its way through France.”

They kiss once more before they go. It is brief and warm, and they walk out together, so sure of what the future will hold.

But Paris does not rise. Enjolras realises all too late that fear has kept the people down, they did not see beyond the night to where the dawn is waiting, and they have left the revolutionaries trapped here to die for their dreams. Enjolras led them here, his friends, and yet still they look at him for guidance as the National Guard close in. There is no more hope, there is no more tomorrow, at least not for them.

“Take every man you can with you,” Enjolras spits, using the barrel of his carbine as a weapon, having long fired his last bullet.

Courfeyrac laughs bright and loud, his fire hasn’t been dampened with the hours of fighting, “I will take them all with me if I can, I simply refuse to go down alone.”

“You will not be alone, Courfeyrac,” Bossuet laughs, firing again and then throwing aside his pistol – empty. It was the last gun they had, “I’m afraid we will all be there to keep you company.”

Already they have lost too many friends to count, Bahorel was first, then Jehan, little Gavroche and around them all more still. They had scrambled back into Musain, having hacked down the remainder of the stairs, but that will only hold the National Guard for a few moments longer. Enjolras slams the barrel of his carbine into yet another soldier who tries to climb up towards them and someone smashes a wine bottle onto the head of a soldier who has managed to almost reach them.

He is dragged backwards as the National Guard fire upwards, scrambling away and grabbing whatever he can throw down at them. Somehow in the chaos he manages to catch Courfeyrac’s eye. There is just the ghost of a smile around his lips, almost teasing. He opens his mouth around the familiar syllables of Enjolras’ name, but no sound comes out. Instead there are gunshots and his eyes widen with shock. He touches his chest where blood is already blooming across his shirt.

There is no time for him to say another word, to laugh one last time. The room is cold, even though Enjolras’ skin is covered with sweat and his chest heaves with exertion. It is as if all the warmth has been drained from the world in that one moment.

Courfeyrac falls to the ground and even though Enjolras is still standing, he is already dead.

His mind is a haze but manages to take out one last soldier with the broken remains of a glass bottle, body moving more on instinct than anything else. Finally he is pushed back against the wall alone, a line of guns pointed to his chest. There is no fear anymore, not when behind them he can see the bodies of his friends bloodied and broken. Something cracks inside of him when he sees Combeferre, eyes staring vacantly out of the window towards the rising sky – no, rather than fear there is a clear and simple joy. He will die for his faith, in Patria, in France, in the people and he join his friends to whatever is beyond.

“Long live the Republic, I am one of them,” all of them freeze as Grantaire staggers up. For once his eyes are clear, his words not slurred and Enjolras smiles one last time. There are no more grudges to hold, only the glory of death that awaits them.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire asks, still nervous even until the end and Enjolras takes his hand. It may be too late for them, for this revolution but he knows that if even Grantaire can stand here to die as a revolutionary then there is always, always hope. He stares back at the National Guard, unflinching. He is not alone, none of them are alone and one day France will rise once more.

The gunshots fire out and the silence that follows is long and ringing.

* * *

Enjolras does not remembering closing his eyes and yet when he tries to open them, he cannot. It is bizarre, he cannot feel anything at all. His body almost feels as if it is floating in warm water, but he cannot move his limbs or shake his head. After a brief struggle he gives in, allows himself simply to be. There is nothing else to do other than to exist.

Slowly, an eternity later he finds himself again, somewhere from within the darkness his body collects itself and makes him whole once more. He can wriggle his fingers, kick his legs and then slowly, slowly he opens his eyes.

He is back in Musain except now it is returned to the way that it once was, with its floorboards stained with ink and wine instead of blood. All of the chairs and tables are neatly scattered around the room and through the windows there is a soft golden light, bright enough that somehow he cannot see out of it.

There is someone standing to his right and when he turns Courfeyrac is there with his hair perfectly styled and a smile on his face. Enjolras presses a shaking hand to his chest, it is whole beneath his palm. He can feel his heartbeat, steady and grounding. There is no blood on his shirt, no pain on his face, he is as warm and smiling as he always had been in life.

Enjolras cannot help himself, surging forwards and kissing him. He can feel him smiling against his lips, the warmth of his hands against his skin as they press together. “Courfeyrac,” he gasps out, “Courfeyrac,” pressing his lips to his cheeks, chin, nose, eyelids, every part of his face until he is laughing and pulling him back down to kiss him on the lips again. There is no fear anymore, just joy, endless overwhelming joy that threatens to burst its way out of Enjolras’ chest.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac murmurs softly when they break apart, “I love you.”

“I love you,” he says back, something he had never said when he was still alive. A regret? Perhaps, but it is too late to have any of those anymore, “I love you more than I ever knew I could.”

They hold each other for a while, finding simple comfort in the warmth of their bodies together, before Courfeyrac breaks apart and starts tugging him towards the door, “come on – we have all been waiting for you, our leader in life and in what is beyond.”

“I am no leader anymore,” he says a little sadly, but Courfeyrac just laughs in response, kissing him softly on the cheek.

“We promised to follow you until the end and somehow we have managed to follow you beyond, surely you will not abandon us now?” Courfeyrac asks, half teasing but his eyes are serious and warm, “you are our leader, always. Death has not changed that.”

The fire in his eyes has not dimmed, rather Enjolras thinks it might burn even brighter now and he takes his hand with a slow smile. Outside he can hear the sounds of his friends talking and laughing, just beyond the warm glow of light, where he cannot see. It is a new unknown, something entirely out of his control. He squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand and smiles again.

They walk out into the light and into what is beyond, together.

**Author's Note:**

> so a happy ending? kinda? as happy as u can get when ur in canon era ig? well idk if u guys know but ao3 is a bit funky rn bc everyone is staying at home and reading fanfic so they're no longer counting hits from logged out users. combine that w a rarepair..... so anyways pls leave a kudo and a comment if u enjoyed! would mean a lot to me!


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